In These Arms
by xoxxSweetNothings
Summary: Randy Orton has spent the last eight years of his life fulfilling his lifelife dream of performing for the WWE. A serious injury, however, leaves him to recuperate for a lengthy amount of time in the arms of a familiar face from the past.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing corresponding to WWE franchise.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

His head was pounding.

_Just get through this match, Orton_, he thought to himself, _then you can go straight to the hotel and crash._ The roar of the audience, only partially dulled from backstage, was a curse to Randy Orton's pulsing headache. With both arms against the wall, he halfheartedly attempted to stretch out his right leg, only to feel a new wave of dizziness overtake him. "Why can't you just go away…" he groaned, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cement wall.

"Wow man, way to be blunt about it. A simple, 'I can't talk now,' would've been fine, you know."

Randy stood upright at the sound of the familiar voice. "Ah, Chris, hey. Sorry about that. I was talking to the little elf that's pounding a sledgehammer into my brain at the moment."

Chris Jericho stood amused, with his eyebrows kicked upwards at the unsightly mental image. "Headache's gotcha, huh?" he said with a quiet chuckle. "Might wanna take care of that. Our match is next."

"I'm fine, don't worry about it." replied Randy with a shrug.

"You sure you're good with all that we went over during practice this morning?" asked Chris as concern glazed over his eyes. "Remember, when you're on that turnbuckle, you jump after five beats. Any earlier and you'll be out cold—"

"I know, I know, stop worrying about me." With a determined demeanor, but ceaselessly throbbing head, Randy resumed stretching against the solid wall. "We're veterans at this, yeah? Something goes wrong, we feel things out and keep plowing through. Just like that." The dizziness had returned, yet he tried, with closed eyes, to appear collected.

Chris shook his head with a sympathetic stare. There was a short moment of apparent hush before the riff of guitars brought about a new chorus of cheers and yells from the audience.

"That's your cue, Chris."

Briskly patting Randy on the shoulder, he added with a small grin, "Let's make it a show, Orton!" before turning and walking off.

Randy watched as his friend strode down the corridor and out through the velvet black curtains. The cheers heightened. He could just picture the walkway, laden with strobe lights, the groping hands of excited fans left and right, multiple cameras in the oddest of places, all leading to the place he knew so well – the wrestling ring. The boom of flames sounded, accompanying the screeching guitars of Chris Jericho's entrance music. More excited screams. More of the constant beating.

He walked down the corridor with slow steps, stopping behind the curtain to wait. Closing his eyes, he rolled his head idly from side to side, feeling the crack in his neck. _One match_, he thought. _One match standing between me and a soft pillow and mattress_.

The roar of the crowd died down as another seeming hush fell upon the arena. In the next second, music blared out loudly, followed by a mix of elated screams and barefaced boos. A sense of a familiarity filled Randy as he stepped through the curtain, wearing his signature smirk and cocky bravado. Headache or not, it was time for business; in taking that step, he had transformed himself into the character that so many had recognized him as – the Legend Killer.

Walking down the runway was another blur of familiarity, a surreal sense of déjà vu. Years of performing for the company had given him this feeling. Yet despite the lingering sense of going through the habitual motions, this moment in time still felt new, still held the promising thrill that fed his insatiable passion. This was his spotlight, his moment, his childhood dream fulfilled.

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Randy jumped onto the apron, through the ropes, hopping languidly onto the mat. Chris Jericho stood in his corner, eyeing him with the sneering facial expression of a supposed enemy. Randy, cracking his knuckles as he sauntered towards him, reciprocated Chris's expression with his own critical face. This staredown quickly transformed into the fight with the sharp ding of the bell, Randy executing the first push.

The match proceeded smoothly, as both men fell into a comfortable pacing of the routine they both had staged and thoroughly practiced prior. _Cactus clothesline on three_, Randy mentally noted before applying the maneuver. _Forearm club on eight_. Pulsing of the head. _Block for two_. Beating, beating. _Fall on six_. Constant throbbing. _Sole kick on seven, get up on eight_. Randy squinted as his standing up seemed to amplify the pounding in his head.

_Damn, I feel so lightheaded_, Randy thought as he teetered on one leg for a split second. He caught the short moment of Chris Jericho's widening eyes before dodging his dive only seconds later. _You've gotta concentrate, Orton_, he told himself before swinging his opponent into a pin, which was broken after two counts.

But standing up only brought him a larger amount of nausea. _Palm strike on eight…fucking headache…eight counts to throw in a stinger splash_. The arena looked blurry and Randy climbed onto the top turnbuckle. _Plow through Orton. Jump on one…two…_

There seemed to be no time for panic to hit Randy as he flew midair. The last thing he heard was the crack of a bone and gasps before darkness fell upon him.

* * *

**A/N:** Your reviews motivate me to keep writing and updating quickly, so by all means, please review once you've read this! Thanks guys.


End file.
